Little Pink Starfish

The performance at Brown Basic in Hapjeong turned out better than expected.

For me, shows like this were nothing new.

Especially in the early GOTM days, I spent a good year or two rotating through underground clubs.

It wasn’t because I lacked the ability to skip the underground grind.

With my future knowledge, wealth, and a stash of surefire hit songs, I could’ve skipped ahead and made a hotshot debut.

But sometimes, there are paths you’re not supposed to skip.

I’m a person of color, and in the band culture world, that puts me in a perfect position to be scrutinized under a racial lens.

So I had to build cultural common ground with those people.

I needed the story of struggling through the underground club scene, facing racism in LA, and making it out with my friends.

That’s why, in the beginning, I sometimes purposely played “average” songs.

Because I needed Rolling Stone to publish a line like,

“He was booed off his first stage, but within a year, he had the crowd eating out of his hand.”

Band culture also has its hierarchy.

At the top: those who break through underground clubs purely with skill.
And below them: the ones who debut in pre-packaged, agency-planned idol bands.

And no, idol systems aren’t exclusive to Korea.

The U.S. has them too.

In fact, Korea’s entire “planned + hardcore training” system originates from Motown Records—the legendary label that practically created its own genre.

Anyway, point being—I’ve had enough experience in the underground to be considered a “pureblood” by band culture standards.

The same couldn’t be said for Sedalbaekil.

This was their first time.

The second I told them we had a show, they panicked.
They got so nervous I ended up doing the Under the Streetlight remake solo, even though I was supposed to sing it with Tae-hwan.

They begged me to at least do the opening.

But after I nailed the opener, they managed to pull it together and showed some real skill.

There were rough spots, sure—but you can’t expect perfection on your first try.

When the performance ended, a flood of audience members swarmed us asking for autographs and pictures.

“Wow…”

A lot of people seemed genuinely stunned by Lee Ion’s face.

“Can we post this online?”

“Of course. Please do.”

“How did you end up performing here?”

“The original guest band had to cancel last minute. CEO Lee Hyun-seok thought it’d be a good idea for us to experience the indie scene.”

“Wait, so Sedalbaekil wasn’t even supposed to be today’s guest?”

“Nope. We got confirmed just today. So we didn’t even have a setlist prepared. Bit unpolished, right?”

“No! No, no! Not at all!!”

You really only needed to say “no” once.

That explanation I gave? Half true.

I’d asked Lee Hyun-seok a while ago to find us as many indie gigs as possible where we could sub in as guest acts.

I told him not to use our name for marketing and that we wouldn’t take a fee.

As a result, I already had 13 shows lined up just this month.

I was going to take more if I could.

Still, this particular show really did come together at the last minute.

One band had to cancel, and Lee plugged us in right away—said it was a good idea to start small.
The venue was close to where we were going anyway.

It was a perfect opportunity.

Our next venue would have a 200+ audience—and the Sedalbaekil members might choke under pressure.

Performing at a small show and a big show are completely different experiences.

“Sorry, we have to head out to our next schedule! Thank you, everyone!”

“Thank you!”

Just as we were leaving, Evening Promise—the band that performed right before us—came running over, carrying their instruments, asking for autographs.

Apparently, they’d gone to buy markers.

They said they were huge fans and had even uploaded a cover of our song online.

If they’re asking for autographs on their instruments, they must be legit fans.

That was kind of surprising.

Didn’t expect we’d have this kind of support already in the indie scene.

“Hope we meet again sometime.”

With that, we left the venue and got into the van we’d parked in a nearby alley.

“Whew…”

“Whoa…”

“Ugh…”

As soon as we got in, the members exhaled deeply.

They were finally relaxing.

“Fun, right?”

“It was fun… but how did we actually do?”

“I think I danced during Seoul Town Funk…”

“Don’t worry. We’ll be reviewing the footage.”

“Wait, you recorded it?”

“Yep.”

We had two part-timers planted in the audience filming the whole thing.

“We’ll write reflections and feedback in our error notebooks later. For now, rest up.”

“So the ‘real test’ you mentioned…”

“Yeah, that was it.”

“Why didn’t you tell us beforehand?”

“I did tell you—earlier today.”

“But you could’ve told us days ago.”

I shrugged at Saemi-ro’s question.

Sure, it wouldn’t have been hard to let them know three days in advance.

They could’ve fine-tuned the setlist more.

But that wasn’t what I wanted.

I didn’t want them to only perform well when everything was perfectly planned.

“We don’t know when or where we’ll have to perform next.”

An opportunity would definitely come.

I’d make sure of it—I had that much ability.

But while M-Show and Lion Entertainment were watching us like hawks, no “scheduled” opportunity would be given.

Whatever came would be sudden and urgent.

And grabbing that moment wasn’t something I could do alone.

We had to do it.

“In that sense, we’ve been too spoiled with structured performances.”

On Coming Up Next, aside from minor missions, each stage had at least 5 days—up to two weeks of prep time.

Maybe the members didn’t realize it, but that caused bad habits.

They tried to treat practice like the real thing—but there was always a gap in attitude.

Back when The Beatles were unknown, they used to perform in Hamburg 12 hours a day.

They survived on beer and stimulants just to keep up with the schedule.

Even after becoming famous and returning to Liverpool, they played every night from 7 p.m. to 2 a.m.

At the Cavern Club—the holy land of Beatles fans.

So yeah, this kind of grind is necessary.

Even GOTM members used to joke after we moved on from club life:

“Oh my god! We only have to perform 3 hours a day now!”

“No way! We did just that and got paid this much?”

I think Sedalbaekil needs that underground grind too.

Because for a while, we won’t have the luxury of high-budget, staff-packed, agency-planned stages.

“Refining the essence—that’s what this is.”

I thought it was a pretty meaningful speech.

But then Choi Jaeseong summed it up in one sentence:

“Si-on hyung just became a boomer.”

“……”

This is what’s wrong with kids today.

Back in my day—

I once got hit with a banana at an underground gig.
I picked it up, improvised a parody of Harry Belafonte’s Banana Boat Song, and performed it live.

The guy who threw the banana came to apologize afterward.

I was going to accept it, but someone else punched him in the face.

Who was it…?

Andrew Gunn? Dave Logan?

“……”

I suddenly felt down.

All those memories with GOTM were vivid for me—but no one else in this world remembered them.

One day, Sedalbaekil would probably be the same.

“Our next gig’s at Roach in Hongdae. It’ll be about 300 people. Let’s step it up.”

I said that, then started the car.

I was the only one with a license—so for now, I’d also be acting as the crew’s road manager.

---

Sedalbaekil officially began their indie scene run.

The first day was a rollercoaster.

The show at Brown Basic had been great—but the next one at Roach? A disaster.

That show was a guest spot at a solo concert by a band called Eoljook-ah (Frozen Americano).

And the fans didn’t welcome us.

They had a reason.

The leader and guitarist of Eoljook-ah had debuted as an idol at 18 and spent 7 years trapped in a slave contract.

He’d signed with the promise of debuting as a band, but got forced into idol training instead.

So Eoljook-ah’s fans weren’t exactly thrilled to see current hot idol Sedalbaekil as guest performers.

Han Si-on had already been warned by Lee Hyun-seok.

He’d advised against performing—but Han Si-on insisted.

Performing in front of a cold, hostile crowd was also a necessary experience.

As expected, the members were drenched in cold sweat, barely performing at half their usual level.

But one member surprised everyone:

On Saemi-ro.

He usually shrank under criticism—but not this time.

He sang confidently and showed off his skills.

Han Si-on was, as always, untouchable.

Together, they were so good that even Eoljook-ah’s fans softened up by the end.

Later that night, there was another show at 11 p.m.—Jaeseong couldn’t make it.

But they pulled it off decently.

Then came another show the next day. And another the day after.

It was a weekend stretch: Friday, Saturday, Sunday.

And their indie scene journey was starting to make waves online.

Seeing contestants from a show with 10% ratings suddenly pop up at tiny indie gigs was newsworthy.

But the buzz didn’t spread far.

It trended in niche forums and music communities—but not to the general public.

No mainstream news picked it up.
YouTube clips were hit by mysterious report bombs and got temporarily deactivated.

They were restored later—but by then, the fire had already fizzled.

Someone kept pouring water on their sparks.

Still, the Sedalbaekil crew didn’t care.

They knew, through Han Si-on, what was coming—and that wasn’t the urgent issue right now.

“Hey! Choi Jaeseong!”

“Wh-what?”

“This was you, right?”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“This is your handwriting!”

“Okay, so what if it was?! That’s what the error notebook’s for!”

“……”

“Si-on hyung! Saemi-ro hyung is censoring my error notebook!”

Han Si-on looked over Saemi-ro’s notebook and gave Jaeseong a smack on the back.

Swollen face from eating ramen last night.

It had nothing to do with vocals.

But Jaeseong was surprisingly serious.

Sure, he was half-joking—but also half-not.

“We need to manage our diets. We’re still okay for now, but I can see us slacking off. We may be a ‘crew,’ but we’re idols. Fans will be disappointed if we don’t look the part.”

The members nodded.

He had a point.

They’d started slipping on their diet with all these shows.

Just yesterday, they’d eaten pork belly with soju.

“Alright. Let’s get gym memberships.”

“Personal training?”

“No, just the gym.”

“But who’ll teach us?”

“I will.”

Han Si-on had spent years forced to bulk up.

He’d trained with top Hollywood trainers, determined to shed his “typical soft-looking East Asian male” image.

He was practically a fitness expert.

And he’d promised himself during those hellish “eat-and-purge” days that if he ever debuted again, he’d build a team with solid muscle mass.

Not full-on bulked—but enough to enjoy good food without guilt.

“Um… Si-on?”

“Yes?”

“Your eyes look kinda scary right now…”

“Ion hyung. Your face? Could work in the U.S. Right now. Easily.”

“…Huh?”

“But your body? Not gonna cut it.
I’ll make sure it does.”

“…Okay.”

Lee Ion had already given up.

When Han Si-on had that look in his eyes, there was no stopping him.